


We Were There

by Paeng



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-16
Updated: 2012-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:16:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paeng/pseuds/Paeng
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nanjiroh teaches Ryoma his best move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Were There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neko11lover](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neko11lover/gifts).



> Dedicated to **neko11lover** for the _Kris Kringle 2011_ in  Imagination: Unleashed. (Prompt: Even if I grow old, this will stay with me.)

"When will you teach me your best move, otou-san?"

A little boy of eight hurtled towards the net, his tiny fists bearing a new shiny red racket. He swung it with such power and precision that as soon as the tennis ball came in contact with it, there was a streak of yellow jetting straight for the corner.

A resounding boom of laughter followed his question, but the little boy's attention was grossly fixed on the ball he expected to land any moment now, the feel of triumph already coursing throughout his system.

Then a body materialized in the path of his shot, and the momentary feeling of victory was gone as quickly as it came when the ball landed back at his feet.

His father was grinning at him.

"I've already started."

It was only years later when he truly understood what his father meant.

~.

~.

~.

"Have you congratulated your son yet?"

Nanjiroh felt the added weight on the sofa, but he kept his eyes on the television. "Did he get himself a girlfriend?"

Rinko sighed, wondering when her husband would grow up. "Winning the Junior Tournaments for four consecutive years is no easy feat, Nanjiroh. Give Ryoma a little credit. He could do with a little acknowledgement from his father—Dear! Have you finished packing?" Her attention was suddenly on Ryoma who had appeared by the doorway.

"Yes," he hesitated before entering the living room.

Nanjiroh's gaze dawned on his son whose eyes were currently roaming the area. "Hey, Ryoma!"

"Have you seen Karupin?" he asked his mother.

"The last time I saw him, he was sleeping on the porch."

He left the room without another word.

Nanjiroh harrumphed and settled himself at a more comfortable position on the couch. "See that cocky brat."

"Oh, don't be such a sourpuss," Rinko berated, leaning in towards Nanjiroh for a kiss. "Now start packing. Our flight's at three, and Ryoma's first tournament in Japan is tomorrow," she breathed after pulling away.

Nanjiroh sunk lower in his seat and grumbled about cold wives and bigheaded sons.

~.

~.

~.

"Oyaji. Let's play."

Nanjiroh did not move an inch from his spot.

"I know you're awake."

"Go away," Was the reply muffled by the magazine covering his face.

A racket poked him at his hipbone.

"Ajajajaja!" He sat up straight from the floor, which sent his magazine flurrying down at his son's feet.

A naked woman gazed at them with half-lidded eyes, and it took all Ryoma's willpower not to hurl the racket at his father's face. Instead, he picked the magazine up and safely tucked it in his duffel before Nanjiroh could snatch it from his hands.

"A game," Ryoma reiterated. "Then I'll give it back."

Nanjiroh let out an exasperated sigh as he finally stood up, and grabbed the wooden racket lying on the temple floor. "Stop bugging me and go get yourself a girlfriend."

"No way," Ryoma positioned himself on the court and prepared to serve. And just as he was about to toss the ball in the air, his eyes zeroed in on his father who had retrieved another magazine from the neckline of his yukata. "Hey!"

"Yes, yes. I'm still playing with you, brat," Nanjiroh drawled, flipping through the pages. "I'm giving you a handicap in case you're wondering."

Ryoma's temper flared, and he served the ball without warning.

Nanjiroh smoothly returned his serve while his eyes stuck to the girls on the glossy sheets.

"Play seriously," Ryoma growled as he rallied with his father.

"Nah!"

"…I'll make you."

"You can't," Nanjiroh snorted and smashed Ryoma's lob. For a moment, his eyes flitted towards his son before they returned to his magazine. "Because you've ways to go, Ryoma."

~.

~.

~.

"Is the cake ready, Nanako-san?"

"I'm taking it out now. I need a little help with the curry though—oh, the doorbell!"

"They're here! Quick, open the door, Ryoma!"

There was a flurry of movements before the front door was opened, revealing Ryuuzaki Sumire and her granddaughter, Sakuno.

It wasn't long before both guests were comfortably settled in the living room with hot tea served on the table. Ryoma was about to make a beeline for his room, but Rinko was quick to grab her son by the collar and drag him down with her on the couch. Nanjiroh would have readily made his escape at the sight of Sumire under normal circumstances, but seeing that his son was trapped in Rinko's clout, he figured it would be much more interesting to stay—he took the vacant seat between his wife and the young Ryuuzaki.

"I heard you're returning to America soon," Sumire started as she sipped her oolong tea.

"Yes… but Ryoma's staying for the tournaments?" Rinko cast a sideward glance towards her son who had been silent all this time. She garnered no response from the boy who was seemingly glaring at something past her.

"So what do you think of Ryoma?" Nanjiroh sported a Cheshire grin.

"He's an excellent tennis player, Echizen-san," Was Sakuno's polite reply.

"Never mind tennis… What do you think of him as a boy?"

The effect was instantaneous: the girl's face had gone completely red.

"W-What do you mean?"

"Do you like him~?" If Nanjiroh's grin could get any wider, it did now.

Before Sakuno could give her answer, Nanako had called them in for dinner. She was wise enough to avoid Nanjiroh this time and quickly situated herself beside her grandmother. Unfortunately, taking the seat beside Sumire would entail sitting beside Ryoma. But she need not worry about enduring such awkwardness because he quickly gobbled up his dinner and slipped out of the room undetected.

"Eh? Where's Ryoma? We haven't sung for him yet," Rinko entered, carrying a two-layered chocolate cake.

"I'll look for him," Nanako got on her feet and stepped out of the dining room.

"I-I'll help," Sakuno piped in, which earned her knowing looks from everyone, and quickly joined Ryoma's cousin.

"That cold, arrogant brat," Nanjiroh bit out as he gulped down his sake, "Leaving the poor girl."

"Oh, Ryoma's just being his usual self," Rinko immediately came to her son's defense. "But I think that it's very nice of Sakuno-chan to bear with him."

The Samurai whisked his cup for another drink. "If I were him, I'd have swept her off her feet right now and smothered her with my hot kisses—"

"Don't compare your son to yourself," Sumire interjected, shooting his former student a glare. "Besides, they're just kids."

Nanjiroh's retort was cut short when Nanako reappeared.

"He won't be having his slice right now," she said lightly and took her seat.

"Where did you find him?" Rinko asked.

"With Sakuno-chan," Nanako smiled.

"EHHH?"

Nanjiroh figured his son wasn't so hopeless after all.

~.

~.

~.

"Ryoma just called," Rinko walked in the bedroom, her eyes boring on her husband who was lying contentedly on the bed and was reading a tennis magazine. "He's in the airport right now."

"Hmm..."

"And apparently, they won the Nationals."

"..."

Rinko could only roll her eyes as she walked out.

"Nationals, huh," Nanjiroh muttered to himself as he read the article featuring The Samurai's sudden withdrawal from the tennis world.

~.

~.

~.

"Where's your mother?"

Ryoma shut the sliding door close and joined his father on the porch. "Preparing dinner."

Nanjiroh did not look up from the timeworn radio he was tinkering with. "Shouldn't you be helping her with that?"

"She told me to rest." The fourteen-year old took a seat on the wooden floor beside his father, and it was only then the Samurai realized that Ryoma had his tennis bag with him.

"And you're here to rest?"

"…"

"Bah, I'm no mechanic!" Nanjiroh put the machine in the niche between two flowerpots then fully turned to his son with a grin. "So, brat! It's your first official match in the professional circuit tomorrow. And you came here because you're having the jitters—there's no need to deny it! I never thought I'd see the day when my son would be so adorable—"

"You know what I want, oyaji," Ryoma snapped, regarding his father with a sideward glance.

"Advice on getting a girlfriend?" Nanjiroh wagged his eyebrows.

His question was met with piercing silence.

"Alright, alright," Nanjiroh scratched the back of his head and stood up. "You are so uncute, did you know that?"

He reached for his tattered racket from one of the bushes in the backyard and ambled towards the court, where his son was already in position. For a moment, he simply stared at Ryoma, his eyes taking in his son's well-built physique, his suddenly tall stature. and the fire in his golden orbs as he waited for play.

"Give me the ball. I'll serve."

Ryoma's eyes widened, but he paid heed and threw the ball at his father.

Nanjiroh caught it with no trouble, bounced it on the ground thrice then tossed it upward. "It's about time you play real tennis."

In the next moment, the ball landed in between Ryoma's feet and sprang to the garden wall.

His son was not a little boy anymore.

~.

~.

~.

"Is that Echizen?"

Ryoma's long strides helped him quickly escape the growing crowd in the hallway and gain security in the confines of the hospital room. As soon as he entered, his raised hand served as a greeting to his presently shell-shocked company.

"Ryoma!" Rinko was the first to recover from her surprise, and she ushered her son to take a seat on one of the stools.

Nanako, on the other hand, rushed to the refrigerator to scrounge some snacks for their unexpected visitor.

"Shouldn't you be in London right now?" she asked after handing the Ponta can to her cousin and returning to her spot on the couch.

But Ryoma ignored the inquiry and directed his attention at the unconscious man lying on the bed. He noticed how much weight his father lost in the six months he had been away from home. "How's oyaji?"

"The cells have progressed to the walls of his colon," Rinko's eyes were locked on Nanjiroh as well. "They'll perform the resection tomorrow to remove the infected region."

Ryoma didn't say anything, his gaze boring on his father's face.

"You know your father… He didn't want you to know until the end of your tournaments," his mother whispered. "But I thought it would be best if I told you."

An hour had gone when his phone suddenly vibrated in his pocket.

Rinko watched the flicker of frustration on her son's face as he answered the call, and she knew that his visit was up.

"Here, Ryoma-san," Nanako had collected some more cans and gave it to Ryoma before he got off his chair.

"Thanks," Ryoma muttered as he tucked the beverages in his messenger bag.

"Bring me a hot British guy when you come back."

"He might not be in one piece though," He smiled, matching the one on his cousin's face. He stood up and turned to his mother.

"Take care, dear," Rinko stood up as well and kissed him goodbye. "Don't worry about your father, alright? Just focus on your match."

Ryoma nodded and slung the strap of his bag on his shoulder. When he was in front of the open doorway, he paused, with his back still fully turned on them.

"Don't tell him I came."

Then he disappeared in the hallway, the door shutting close behind him.

Rinko shook her head, a soft smile gracing her face. Like father, like son.

Nanjiroh's Duke's A Colon Cancer was treated in surgery the next day.

Concurrently, thousands of miles away from New York, Ryoma won his first championship title in Wimbledon.

~.

~.

~.

"Give me back that orange, nii-san!"

Six-year old Ryoma bawled as he tried to keep up with his brother who was already far off in the distance.

"You can't catch me in that pace, chibisuke! Run faster!"

"GIVE IT BACK!"

"Mada mada daze!"

Then the screen flashed another scene, this time featuring an older Ryoma.

"Where did you find these videos," Rinko grinned at the sight of Ryoma stuffing his face with some birthday cake. "I've been looking for them for ages."

Nanjiroh scooted closer to his wife and kissed her cheek as if to distract her. Admittedly, he'd mistaken them for his X-rated movies—they were unlabeled, just like the videos—that he'd been keeping them under the bed cushions for a long time now, hoping that he could enjoy a marathon while everybody was out. Alas, it turned out to be his sons' childhood videos, and before he could press stop on the CD player, Rinko returned from her grocery-shopping and saw what was playing on the screen.

They had been watching them for two hours now, with Rinko laughing out loud every once in a while.

It was around six o'clock in the evening when Ryoma arrived in the house.

He was dumbfounded to see his parents snuggling on the couch and watching his eight-year old self struggling with tying his shoelaces. For a moment, he simply watched them talk in hushed tones and chuckle together—until the scene got to the part where his ties came undone that he tripped and fell face flat on the mud.

"Kaa-san."

Rinko visibly brightened when she looked over her shoulder. "Well, look who's back!"

Ryoma made his way around the sofa so that he could drop a big red box on his mother's lap.

The woman gushed in delight when she opened the cover, "Why, it's my favorite cake from that bakery in Paris! Thank you, dear!" She replaced the cake on her husband's lap and kissed her son, which she had to do on a tiptoe since he was more than a foot taller than her now.

"So you finally decided to go home," Nanjiroh smirked as he opened the lid and scooped some frosting with his finger.

"We haven't seen him for ages," Rinko said after releasing Ryoma from her embrace. "It would be downright mean if he won't come visit us after he's won his first Grand Slam."

Ryoma unheeded his parents' teasing and craned his head to the side to peer in the kitchen. "What's for dinner?"

"Dinner!" His mother shrieked. "I totally forgot!" She rushed in the kitchen, but not before she collected her cake from her husband who had been helping himself to some toppings this time.

Nanjiroh groused under his breath and sunk back in his seat.

There was a moment of awkward silence between him and Ryoma, who had chosen to sit on the adjacent sofa and pretend to sleep.

"How's the spotlight?" Was his first attempt for idle chatter.

"Hate the paparazzi."

Nanjiroh's eyebrows shot upward in surprise, and he smiled at the fact that his son had actually replied. "And the girls? The parties?"

"Annoying," Ryoma muttered, pulling down his Fila cap to cover his face.

"ATP Rank 10 at the age of 16... Not bad, kid... You're on the right track…"

"…"

"But you still have a long way to go," Nanjiroh's smile never left his face, not even when his lids slowly began to flutter close.

"Oyaji."

His eyes snapped open. "What?"

"What happened?"

Nanjiroh wasn't sure whether his son meant to ask about the illness he recovered from, his career as a professional, or the reason why he suddenly withdrew from the tennis world.

A pensive moment passed.

He shut his eyes. "I got old."

~.

~.

~.

"Oyaji. Let's play."

Something stirred in Nanjiroh upon hearing his son's adult voice, for not so long ago it had been a twelve-year old boy, who has yet to hit puberty, bugging him for a game.

He groaned, shifting on the grass to lie on his side. "Piiiity this o-old maaan who—who neeeds h-his rest~" he rasped and said shakily, as if he was dying and out of breath.

He swore he heard some giggling, but even before he could decide on whether it was either a figment of his imagination or Ryoma who was truly responsible, he felt something cool and hard sticking at his hipbone.

"Ajajajaja!"

He plucked the straw hat off his face, the sun rays blinding him for a moment when a figure hovered above him and ultimately shielded him from the light.

"Still alive, oyaji?" Ryoma smirked, his red racket crammed under his armpit.

"You'd never stop bugging me, would you?" Nanjiroh huffed, still not bothering to sit up from his position. "Who'd you beat this time?"

"Djokovic."

"Huh." The Samurai blinked, and then abruptly sat up. "Djokovic?"

"Are we playing or not?" Ryoma drawled, already swinging his arm with the racket gripped in his hand.

"Djokovic!" He could only stare at him with mouth agape. "That must mean you moved up to No. 1!"

"Are you scared now?"

Nanjiroh burst into a bout of laughter, his eyes twinkling in amusement. Teasing his son never grew old. But his blood tingled at the idea of playing the world's current top player.

"You're still a cocky brat after all these years."

The young Echizen's gaze darted towards the magazine lying beside his father. "And you're still the same perverted old man."

As soon as Nanjiroh stood up, he was met with another surprise.

"Good afternoon," A brunette in a summer dress stepped out from behind Ryoma. "How have you been, Echizen-san?"

"Sakuno-chan!" Nanjiroh immediately straightened. "You were here all this time?"

"Kind of," she admitted sheepishly.

Nanjiroh's grin was as joshing as ever. "My idiot of a son finally got himself a girlfriend, huh?"

Sakuno blushed, which pretty much answered his question. "Fiancée, actually."

He did a back track, but he recovered immediately. "So when are you going to bear me some grandchildren—ajajajaja can you stop it with my hipbone?" He glared at his son who had just retracted the racket from his pelvis.

"Stop teasing her," Ryoma deadpanned as he began to make his way towards the court. "I'm the only one allowed to do that."

As he watched the nineteen year-old whisper something in Sakuno's ear that made her red to roots end, Nanjiroh figured Ryoma was finally getting there.

The Samurai lost to his son for the first time that afternoon.

But it was glorious.

Like he was twenty-years old again, and he had just won his first Grand Slam.

~.

~.

~.

Ryoma entered the room unnoticed.

His father was seated on an armchair at the corner, and was completely engrossed with reading a magazine. Upon seeing the scantily clad woman on the cover, he wondered if the old man would ever outgrow his fetishes.

His eyes flitted upward. Dozens of recognitions—medals, certificates, plaques— were on the wall. And at the far-end, there was a lone picture; a tanned man was grinning and waving at the crowd as he raised his golden trophy above his head.

Samurai Nanjiroh.

"I suppose you're here to bug me for another match."

Ryoma's scrutiny dropped on the man on the opposite side of the room: Nanjiroh's eyes were equally piercing as he stashed his previous preoccupation in the rack beside his chair.

He was bewildered for there were actually two magazines; one featuring women in bikini—the one he had first seen—and the other an old issue of Tennis Pro. Apparently, his father was ill at ease to be reading the latter since he had been using his perverted magazine as a cover.

And for a fleeting second, he caught a glimpse of the page his old man was looking at.

It was a picture of the Samurai right before he stepped out of the limelight.

"Do you regret it?" Ryoma's voice betrayed nothing, but his golden orbs were blazing in the dimness of the study.

"Regret what?"

There was a pause.

"Quit being pro."

Nanjiroh's gaze on his son did not falter.

"Never."

Something flashed in Ryoma's eyes, but he said nothing and merely studied his father, taking note that despite his old age, he still looked as fierce and proud as ever – a Samurai through and through.

"Dad!" An eight-year old boy suddenly entered, and clung to Ryoma who had been standing in the middle of the room all this time; he gripped his father's jeans as if his life depended on it. "Mom's making me drink the yuck again!" Then he turned to Nanjiroh, pouting. "Grandpa, help!"

"Ryoutaro!" Sakuno sauntered in with a teaspoon in one hand, and a biscuit and a glass of water on the other. "You need to drink this so you'll get better."

Nanjiroh was laughing in the background as Ryoma tried appeasing his whining son. "Ryou, do as she says."

"But!"

"Come on, Ryou," His mother prompted, placing the spoon directly in front of his reluctant mouth. "You won't be able to play tennis if you don't get better, you know."

"But—mmph!"

The spoon was retracted from his mouth as soon as it had entered.

"Yuck!"

"Drink up," Sakuno handed him the glass of water then retrieved it when he was finished. "Here, take the cookie."

Ryoutaro heeded his mother and bit into the sweet, but left the room without saying another word.

"That little rascal," Nanjiroh grinned, finally standing up from his chair. "I'm guessing it's also time for lunch, Sakuno?"

Sakuno smiled at her father-in-law. "Yes. Someone here was tasked to call you, but I believe he had forgotten why he came here in the first place." She cast a sideward glance at her husband who found the ceiling interesting all of a sudden.

They were walking in the hallway, with Nanjiroh up front, when Sakuno leaned in towards Ryoma. "Your mother planned all of this, so do your best to stay until the end, alright?"

"Why would I not stay? This is oyaji's birthday party," Ryoma smirked. "Something embarrassing is bound to happen to him."

They reached the dining room soon, and upon entrance, a blast of colors greeted them. Balloons, streamers and a banner saying "Happy 50thBirthday, Samurai Nanjiroh!" were draped on the ceiling while numerous confetti, candies and party hats littered the dining room table. And playing on the plasma hanging on the wall were clips from Ryoma's childhood.

Rinko paused the video. "It's about time you all got here!"

Both Nanjiroh and Ryoma were about to make a beeline out of the room, but Rinko and Sakuno's clutches on their husbands were swift.

Five minutes later, they were all settled in their seats with food on their plates.

"Why are my videos playing when it's his birthday," Ryoma grumbled in the middle of taking a bite from his pizza.

"Why the hell do I get a kiddie party?" Nanjiroh snapped and took a swig from his cup.

"It's because we all know you're a kid at heart, dear," Rinko replied patiently, taking the sake bottle away from her husband. "And that you love Ryoma very much."

Nanjiroh and Ryoma gagged.

"Hey, look! It's Grandpa on tv!"

Nanjiroh looked up, and indeed, it was Samurai Nanjiroh on the courts—his expression was mighty as he swung his racket back and forth and returned all his opponent's balls. Then after several rallies, he delivered a powerful smash which sent the champion to his knees and ultimately decided the match. The crowd went wild when he pumped his fist in the air. His face was sweaty and beat, but utterly joyful as he waved at them.

It was his last match in the professional circuit.

And he was only one more game away from winning a Grand Slam.

"You were so cool, Grandpa!" Ryoutaro gushed as he playfully swatted Nanjiroh's arm on the table. "I think you might even be better that Dad!"

"Of course I'm way cooler than that brat," Nanjiroh laughed. "I was the one who taught him all the moves, after all."

"Wow!" Ryoutaro's eyes widened in amazement, and then he turned to his father. "What's the best move he taught you?"

Ryoma suddenly appeared on the screen, and he jumped up high in the air and smashed the ball the same way Nanjiroh did a few moments ago—it was his championship match in the US Open, which consequently earned him his fourth Grand Slam title and retained him in the No. 1 spot.

"It was that move, wasn't it, Dad? Can you teach it to me?"

The father in question looked at his son, who was gazing at him expectantly. Across him, he could see Nanjiroh grinning like an idiot as he watched his finals match on the television. A second passed, and Ryoma mirrored the gesture—just as he always had for everything that was his father's.

"You still have a long way to go, Ryou."

Although Nanjiroh's eyes were fixed on the screen, he bore witness to the tiny exchange between his son and grandchild—memories flashed and floodgates of emotion were opened as he remembered that not so long ago, Ryoma had asked him the same question.

He watched his son, the world's No.1 tennis player, ruffle his grandson's hair with open affection.

At that moment, he was ascertained that no wild applause and Grand Slam title can make his heart swell as much.

"Hey, Oyaji. Are you crying?"

And it will stay with him until he was no more.

"Shut up, brat."


End file.
